Stars (Penmore #1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Quotes

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Connect with Malorie

  Acknowledgements

  STARS

  Copyright © 2015 Malorie Verdant

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Design: MaeIDesign

  Formatting by Max Effect

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book is copyrighted material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, translated, distributed, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission from the publisher or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  STARS is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, place or event is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offense to the content, as it is FICTION. This book is also intended for mature audiences, it contains adult language and sexual content. Trademarks: This book recognizes product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To Kirra and Taryn,

  who have always believed in me.

  We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

  Oscar Wilde

  God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.

  William Shakespeare

  PARKER

  One Year Ago

  Dogs start barking.

  Not real dogs. Fake dogs.

  Or possibly auto-tuned real dogs.

  Okay, so I don’t really know. But some form of fake-possibly-auto-tuned barking is the sound my phone makes when the alarm goes off.

  At first, I thought the idea of dogs letting me know the time was super cute. I saw the option, pictured puppies playfully yapping and decided I was going to love this setting. Unfortunately, I can now see that there is absolutely nothing adorable about my small bedroom—with its modest timber bed and posters of Marie Curie on the walls—being filled with the sounds of an angry synthesized Doberman. However, I’ve decided to keep the air-polluting barking, because everyone in close proximity to my phone automatically starts moving away.

  “All right, all right, I’m going,” Millie mutters, case in point, as she reaches for her purse and pulls on her pink Converse sneakers.

  Millie and I have been best friends since the first grade, after a boisterous little redhead noticed my dad had been overly generous with snacks and decided we should share our lunches. Eleven years later and I love when she lets herself into my house, sprawls across my bed and rambles about her failing love life.

  But my alarm going off meant it was nearly time.

  Time for me to panic.

  Time for me to pretend I wasn’t turning into the worst version of myself.

  Time for me to wrangle my best friend out my front door as quickly as possible.

  “I really hate how your dad makes you cook at 10pm every Friday,” she complains as I lead her down the stairs. “I totally think it’s outdated 1950’s behavior. Seriously, what seventeen-year-old should be expected to slave over a hot stove just so her father can come home to a home-cooked meal? It’s cracked. You should at least let me stay and help.”

  “Firstly, I like taking care of him. Secondly, you suck in the kitchen,” I remind her, chuckling as she tries to look at me in shock and feign ignorance. “Last time you offered to cook for me you burnt everything, including the garlic bread.”

  “I’ll have you know cooking garlic bread is hard and clearly involves more steps than the back of the packet supplies,” she claims before opening the door slowly, stepping onto the porch and reluctantly heading toward her little blue Subaru.

  “You’re delusional,” I tease as she finally reaches her pint-sized car. “And make sure you pick up fast-food on your way home!” I call out as she jumps into the driver’s seat and waves her middle finger at me.

  I’m still smiling when I close the front door.

  That is until I remember it’s time.

  Before I begin to hyperventilate, I quickly run around the house and turn off all the lights.

  Once the house appears to be completely empty, I silently creep back up the stairs to my bedroom and peek out the curtains.

  It’s 10:15pm.

  Which means the high school football game should be over and any minute now, my hot next-door neighbor Grayson Waters will walk into his bedroom.

  Grayson Waters is the starting quarterback for our high school varsity football team. In our small town, that means he’s every girl’s—and a few boys’—fantasy come to life.

  Movie-star gorgeous—think Scott Eastwood meets Taylor Kitsch.

  Ridiculously talented—he’s been the starting quarterback since his freshman year.

  And he walks with an arrogance that somehow makes him appear sexier.

  Need I say more?

  Not only does he live next door, but from my bedroom window I have a perfect view of his entire room and he never has his drapes closed. Tonight, with his light on, I can see his empty double bed with its blue striped comforter, his long wooden desk, thin bookcase and wardrobe.

  I get that it’s a little weird—all right, I’ll admit that it’s extremely weird. Not to mention —very pathetic that I am basically hiding in my own house to spy on my next-door neighbor.

  Knowing how pitiful this makes me is exactly why I made up some ridiculous story about my dad finishing night shifts at the hospital and insisting on family dinners. I have never had the courage to tell Millie the truth; that since I was five years old, I have been quietly observing and falling in love with Grayson Waters from my windowsill.

  Though in my defense, my silent surveillance started innocently. It was the first day that Dad and I moved into our two-story craftsman home; right after Mom passed away.

  I was sitting on my new bed cuddling the last soft toy my mom would ever give me, my baby glasses fogging up with tears, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy dressed up as Spiderman. I laughed the entire time as he threw his arms out, pretending to shoot web strings and single-handedly defeat hundreds of invisible villains.

  I was simply fascinated. It was also the first time I was able to smile since Mom sat me on her lap and told me she was sick, and not even Dad’s special powers could fix her. I coul
dn’t help but watch in reverence the following day as Spiderman attempted to climb his wardrobe with his imagined superhuman strength in a death-defying stunt; or a couple days later when he tried to cut open the resulting arm cast.

  He quickly became my very own Truman Show. I even observed from the shadows when he was eight, watching him cry during his parents’ fights about his dad cheating. And I silently stared at him looking defeated as his dad packed all his belongings and left. I actually tried to comfort him that day. I just really don’t like to think about it.

  It was a blimp in my otherwise stellar stalking career.

  After two years of muted viewing, I naïvely thought I had enough courage to introduce myself and help him forget his worries, reimbursing him for all the times he made me smile.

  I watched him storm out of his house, slam the back door and stomp his way into the woods. The same woodlands that ran behind all the houses on our street and continued until they reached the small stone creek our hometown was named after.

  I grabbed my purple sparkly sneakers with Velcro straps and followed him. I knew that if my dad found out I snuck out of the house, I was going to be in so much trouble. But I was willing to risk it. Any punishment would be worth finally having a chance to talk to him. To make him smile, and be the person he needed.

  I found Grayson leaning against a pine tree, just staring aimlessly at the water. The bottoms of his jeans were muddy from his hike through the bushes and he didn’t have any shoes on. His dark brown hair flopped over his forehead, hiding his crystal-blue eyes.

  I carefully stepped toward him, trying to squint through my glasses that had become a little foggy from my panting breath. My fair skin flushed pink and my wildly curly brown hair, once tied up in a high ponytail, was falling unrestrained over my shoulders.

  As I finally approached him, all the adrenaline that coursed through my body during my rush through the woods was gone. I became absolutely terrified about meeting him. The reason I woke up in the morning. The last person I wanted to see before I went to bed. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pale pink shorts and tried to work out what I should do, where to begin. I had practiced what I would say in the mirror a few times for a moment like this, but suddenly I couldn’t remember anything.

  “Hi, I-I’m—” I eventually whispered as I tiptoed forward.

  My nerves made me stutter a little, but before I could get out my name, he growled, “Go away,” and shuffled around the tree so his back was turned to me.

  He didn’t even raise his head before he completely dismissed my presence.

  His words hit me as if two tiny bullets, and bits of my confidence and excitement began to bleed onto the grass and sticks beneath my feet.

  He wanted me to leave. He didn’t care about learning my name, and it wasn’t the day I would be making him smile.

  I didn’t wait to be told twice.

  I dashed home with tears streaking down my face, slammed the door to my bedroom shut and flung myself onto my bedspread. I also began to fret. After trying to say hi, I feared he might notice me through the window. I was panicked at the thought that he might snarl at me again. Tell me to stop watching him. I might have to go back to being the girl who never got to smile and who only got to listen to her daddy cry each night through the thin walls.

  I decided then and there that I was always going to be very careful and remain hidden. I would never give him a reason to growl at me again. I would keep watching, keep smiling, but my lights would always be off. I wouldn’t be making any noise in the future. I definitely wouldn’t be trying to be his friend.

  I noticed he started writing in a journal a couple of days later. I desperately wanted to tell him about how much I liked to write, especially stuff about science.

  But I knew better. He didn’t need me. Or want me.

  It was like the time Mom took me to sit in the front row of the ballet; right before she had to stay at the hospital all the time. She told me that even though I liked to dance, I was an audience member and had to remember that I wasn’t allowed to climb on the stage.

  “We have to let the stars do all the dancing, my princess, and be happy to watch,” she said. “They don’t need our help to be beautiful.”

  So that’s what I decided I would do.

  Let Grayson Waters be the super star while I stayed concealed in the shadows, content with watching.

  Right before I decide to give up on catching a glimpse of Grayson this evening—thinking that reflecting on the past while staring at an empty bedroom is a sad way to spend a Friday night even for me—I notice his bedroom door swing open. His dark brown hair hangs heavily over his forehead, appearing as if he has just come out of the shower. His broad, sculpted shoulders fill the doorway, and his electrifying blue eyes are lit up with an unusual level of excitement, even following a win.

  I wonder if this is the moment everyone has been gossiping about at school. Has Grayson finally made a deal to go pro straight after graduation? His agility and quick thinking on the field have had scouts and reporters hounding him for years. A lot of girls were trying to jump on the money train before it left town, but not a word has been spoken about any final decisions being made.

  Before I start wishfully thinking about the pro team in the nearest city, Mrs. Waters comes into Grayson’s room wearing a Penmore State University sweater. She’s laughing, crying, carrying champagne flutes in one hand and waving around what looks like a Penmore acceptance letter in the other. I watch as they laugh, toast and hug one another. I can’t decide if the silent tear running down my cheek is because I am so happy for them or because I know this means Grayson will be leaving really soon to go to Penmore.

  A school that is not only states away from my bedroom window, but also far beyond my prying eyes.

  PARKER

  The party is in full swing. My first ever frat party and I am hating it. The smell of marijuana and trashy perfume wafts through the air. Red cups litter the floor, my favorite strappy heels keep sticking to God only knows what and if everyone thinks that’s music blaring from the speakers, I have no idea what I have been listening to for the last eighteen years.

  I am done.

  I’m uninterested in the guys that have been checking me out and I’ve been regretting the short black dress my new roommate, Keeley, convinced me I looked “hot as shit” wearing, all night. I keep trying to tug the hemline down, but of course all that does is make a show of my cleavage.

  If people aren’t grinding on each other on the dance floor, they were outside discussing the football team’s training season or sneaking up the stairs to find an empty bedroom, like Keeley and the bassist she met outside.

  I have no idea how all the movies and books I have read managed to paint this scene in a desirable light. I wasn’t really prepared to lose some of my brain cells to cheap beer and I definitely wasn’t going to find an empty mattress with the muscle-ridden blond that keeps winking at me.

  Seriously, he is winking.

  If I weren’t afraid he would touch me or spread conjunctivitis, I would offer him some eye drops I keep in my purse for my contacts.

  Looking around the room of girls with long blonde ringlets and perfectly styled outfits, I felt like a cliché in a teen movie. The nerdy girl, who tries to go to a party and realizes that even after she’s straightened her frizzy brown hair, she still doesn’t fit in. If only Robbie Amell was here to save me.

  “Waters! Waters! Waters!” the entire room suddenly starts chanting in unison, and the very reason I let my roommate convince me to come tonight walks through the door.

  Grayson Waters’s presence seems to cause pandemonium, like fireworks on the Fourth of July; everyone starts gravitating toward the brightness that shines from the reigning king of Penmore.

  I immediately step back and let the shadow of the staircase hide me. I catch glimpses of him as he moves effortlessly through the crowds of people. He looks happy. I try and smother my small grin. It feels like forever since I
last saw him, and I can’t help but do a quick head-to-toe inspection of the boy-next-door.

  From his thick, dark brown hair to his chiseled jaw, wide rock-hard chest and finally his narrow hips, it is clear since he started college that he has gotten even more impressive.

  He seems edgier, like a lion standing amongst his pride. His usual free spirit is caged and controlled, or maybe it’s just waiting for the right moment to break free. Any part of him that was still a boy when he left our small town is gone; he is undoubtedly all man now.

  I have gotten my fill, and I’m ready to go back to my dorm. I experienced my first college party and finally feel like the last few weeks of moving have been worth it.

  Penmore not only has one of the best science departments, but it also has a piece of my heart.

  GRAYSON

  The crowd cheers my name and I just want to be sick. I’ve always hated the pep rallies and school events that inspire Herons supporters to cheer me on before I’ve actually done anything worth supporting. And since the rumors started of our training season being greater than the past ten years, the frat parties aren’t any better.

  I love to play.

  I love the team.

  But I don’t need all this fucking hero worship.

  There is a shit-ton of other team members who are going to contribute to our outstanding season, and I was starting to get really sick of people forgetting that. Also, what do they honestly want me to say back? I don’t know all their names and I can’t promise to be perfect on the field.

  It’s a fucking joke.

  “You the man!” says some stranger as he walks up to me, offering me the beer in his hand.

  “Dude, thanks,” I reply as I slap his shoulder, grab the beer and work my way as fast as I can toward Andy, the team’s hotshot linebacker.

  “Hey, man, about time you finally showed up,” Andy says, fixing his long blond hair into a small bun and sipping on his beer. Ever since he saw Clay Matthews III play for the Green Bay Packers when he was thirteen, he has slowly been transforming himself into his idol’s twin.